San Miniato

Poem By Oscar Wilde

SEE, I have climbed the mountain side
Up to this holy house of God,
Where once that Angel-Painter trod
Who saw the heavens opened wide,

And throned upon the crescent moon
The Virginal white Queen of Grace,--
Mary! could I but see thy face
Death could not come at all too soon.

O crowned by God with thorns and pain!
Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!
My heart is weary of this life
And over-sad to sing again.

O crowned by God with love and flame!
O crowned by Christ the Holy One!
O listen ere the searching sun
Show to the world my sin and shame.

Comments about San Miniato

the Church of 'S. Miniato al Monte': wonderful church, wonderful view on Firenze..
O crowned by God with thorns and pain! Mother of Christ! O mystic wife! My heart is weary of this life And over-sad to sing again. Beautiful writing.
Italian text: ________ San Miniato Guarda, sono salito lungo il fianco Dal monte fino a questa santa casa Di Dio, ove l'Angelo Pittore Vide schiudersi un giorno il paradiso, E mise in trono sull'argentea luna La candita Regina della Grazia: Maria! potessi vedere il tuo cuore, Mai troppo presto verrebbe la morte. Oh tu, cui Dio cinse di spine e doglia! Madre di Cristo! Tu, mistica sposa! Il mio cuore è già stanco della vita. E troppo afflitto per cantare ancora. Oh Tu, cui Dio cinse d'amore e fiamma! Oh Tu, da Cristo coronata Santa! Oh ascolta, prima che il sole riveli Al mondo la mia colpa e la vergogna.


Rating Card

2,9 out of 5
36 total ratings

Other poems of WILDE

Ava Maria Plena Gratia

WAS this His coming! I had hoped to see
A scene of wondrous glory, as was told
Of some great God who in a rain of gold

A Vision

Two crowned Kings, and One that stood alone
With no green weight of laurels round his head,
But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,
And wearied with man's never-ceasing moan

Camma

AS one who poring on a Grecian urn
Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,
God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid,
And for their beauty's sake is loth to turn

Her Voice

THE wild bee reels from bough to bough
With his furry coat and his gauzy wing.
Now in a lily-cup, and now
Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,

Amor Intellectualis

OFT have we trod the vales of Castaly
And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown
From antique reeds to common folk unknown:

A Lament

O well for him who lives at ease
With garnered gold in wide domain,
Nor heeds the splashing of the rain,